The Sun's Firstborn
by snappydog
Summary: How Gwyn's Firstborn, God of War, came to be lost to history. Wildly speculative, but I hope not ridiculously far from what could have happened.
1. In the Age of Ancients

When the Age of Fire first began, the world was ruled by disparity and war. The newly-crowned Lords, freshly emerged from the First Flame, would not tolerate the dragons – but it would not be as easy as simply not tolerating. Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight, fought at the front lines, casting bolts of lightning at the dragons; his firstborn son, Gwyndalion, was ever at his side, his four Knights never far behind.

In the midst of battle, as his father rained lightning upon the dragons, Gwyndalion pressed forward, looking to break through a gap in the line of enemies; Ornstein, clad in golden armour and a lion's face helm, followed.

'Why do you leave your father's side?' Ornstein called to Gwyndalion, sprinting after him through grey stone fields littered with the bodies of dead Silver Knights and heavy broken scales. 'Your place is with him.'

'My place is in battle,' Gwyndalion retorted, stopping as they emerged into a space of unbroken earth, yet unsullied by war.

'You cannot win a battle alone, Firstborn,' said Ornstein, placing a golden gauntlet on Gwyndalion's arm. 'Your father has been fighting this war for longer than you have been walking the world.'

Gwyndalion scowled. He knew that Ornstein disliked his recklessness, and he knew that scowling at him would provoke him: Ornstein would much prefer not to be able to see his expressions, he knew, but Gwyndalion had always refused to wear a helmet, taking the armour he best liked the look of over the most practical.

'You are strong,' Ornstein told him.

'I am,' Gwyndalion replied.

'But a dragon is more than strong.'

'If it is anything other than strong, I have no time for it.'

Ornstein paused, and Gwyndalion knew that his face under the golden lion was disapproving. He had never seen Ornstein's face.

'You must make time for it,' said Ornstein, and Gwyndalion scowled at him again.

'I _must_ do nothing,' he said.

Ornstein hefted his spear, and Gwyndalion thought he would try to impale him, but a loud roar and the heavy beat of stone-leathered wings behind him made the situation clear: a great dragon descended, its heavy talons cracking into the earth.

'You must make time for this,' Ornstein said, and Gwyndalion was almost sure he could hear a tone of mocking in his voice.

'Fine,' he said, and drew his longsword. The Firstborn carried many weapons, partly because he liked to challenge any man alive to best him with any of them, but mostly because he liked above all else to be able to kill something any way he wanted.

The dragon bounded forwards, three times the height of Gwyndalion, slicing at him with talons as long as his sword. Gwyndalion dashed in to meet it, rolling under its slashes. The safest place from which to fight a foe this large, he knew, was underneath, where it could not hit him – but he had reckoned without the dragon's tail, which whipped between its legs and struck him across the face. Gwyndalion stumbled back, feeling the blood leave his body, and a crazed smile began to creep across his face.

Sprinting between the dragon's back legs, he leapt and grabbed its tail where it met the creature's enormous body, and hacked at its less protected underside with his longsword until he felt it sever; then he took hold in both hands and pulled, ripping the tail from the dragon with a shower of stone scales. For good measure, tail still in hand, he bounded up its back towards its head, running along its spine to its neck, and pounded the dragon's head with the spiked end of its own tail.

Ornstein, meanwhile, darted about by the creature's feet, sticking crevice-like wounds in its legs with his spear at every opportunity; overcome by the damage to its legs and head, the dragon collapsed forwards – nearly crushing Ornstein underneath, but he nimbly floated aside – and Gwyndalion hopped down to the earth, staring into one of its eyes.

The eye was not like Gwyndalion had expected. It was… less hard, wetter, covered by a moist film rather than a granite block. He gazed at it for a moment, until it let out a heavy breath. Then he raised his hand, drawing power to cast a miracle from the talisman at his chest, and hurled a Great Lightning Spear through its eyeball.

The projectile disappeared completely into the beast's head, boring a fist-sized hole through its eye. It gave one last shiver and lay still.

'Easy,' said Gwyndalion.

'That doesn't look like easy,' Ornstein said, pointing at Gwyndalion's face.

'It's nothing. A fluke.' Gwyndalion touched a finger to the injury and daubed a little of his blood on the blade of his longsword, examining it for a moment before wiping it away and sheathing the weapon.

'You may not want to put that away just yet,' Ornstein observed, pointing with his spear into the sky.

Gwyndalion turned: three more dragons were rapidly screeching in their direction.

'I have other weapons,' he said.

'So do we,' Ornstein said, firing a bolt of lightning into the air with a loud, hissing crack.

'You're signalling for help?'

'There are three dragons headed right for us; I may be called Dragonslayer and you may be the Sun's Firstborn, but that still only makes two.'

Gwyndalion shrugged irritably. 'Then we would have had all the more glory for ourselves.'

'I would rather be alive than glorious, Firstborn.'

'Then you are hardly alive.'

The dragons came upon them, roaring and flailing their tails and wings as they crashed to the ground. Gwyndalion leapt to meet the first – a broad, muscled specimen, even for a dragon – with a Sunlight Blade miracle enveloping the falchion that flashed into his hands; he was vaguely aware of Ornstein dashing forwards in great bounds to strike at the legs of another. Then, as he sliced down with his blade, the dragon slithered underneath his leap, roaring at something behind him.

Gwyndalion landed hard, the third dragon scampering past him to join the first, and as Gwyndalion tuned he could see what had moved them: a dozen soldiers, perhaps a few more, in heavy armour. Ornstein's signal had called them here, slow-moving in their bulky gear, easy prey for the dragons.

Gwyndalion watched as the dragons pounded the men into the earth with their great toes, or snapped them up in their jaws. In the corner of his eye he saw Ornstein, distracted, sent flying by a swipe of his foe's talon. Exchanging his falchion for a great spear, he reached out to the souls of the dying soldiers.

Sparks played about Gwyndalion's body as he grew, taking strength from the fallen warriors to increase his own; within seconds, he was twice his usual height, and his power was made just as much greater. He flew into the dragon that had downed Ornstein, spearing it through the gut and tossing it aside easily, and then he fired an enormous bolt of lightning from the end of his weapon which blasted the other two dragons with all the force of the Lord of Sunlight himself.

Dashing forwards, bounding over the bodies of the soldiers whose strength he had claimed for himself, Gwyndalion thrust his spear through one of the dragons. It squealed, sounding like the scraping of falling rocks against a cliff side, and he impaled it over and over for long after it had stopped moving. When the rage left him, he became aware of Ornstein urgently trying to signal something to him, and then he was suddenly in the maw of the last dragon.

Struggling to free himself, Gwyndalion shot bolts of lightning into the roof of its mouth; it shook, but did not release him. He felt the borrowed power leave him and his body return to its usual size, and began to fall into its throat – but then: the sound of something heavy landing on the dragon's head, and it rocked with the impact. Then the blade of an enormous cleaver rocketed through the roof of the dragon's mouth, barely missing Gwyndalion as he lay on its spiked tongue. Its mouth lolled open and Gwyndalion launched himself free, turning in the air to fire one last bolt, bolstered by the power of the ring on his finger, straight down the dragon's throat. It shivered and collapsed, steam hissing from its mouth and fog billowing around it where it fell.

'Havel,' said Gwyndalion to the man standing on its head.

'Firstborn,' said Havel, clad in enormously bulky armour. 'Got yourself into a bit of a scrape?'

'I was dealing with it,' Gwyndalion said, half-irritably. He could not help but respect Havel's great strength, though, and Havel knew it.

'You don't have to be grateful,' Havel said, hopping down from the beast's snout, '- but I will take a little… let's call it a token of _my_ victory over this great beast.'

Reaching into the dragon's mouth, Havel grabbed one of its teeth, almost the size of himself, and yanked it out with some effort. 'I can make a nice club out of this,' he said.

'I'm very happy for you,' Gwyndalion replied. 'As for you -' he said to Ornstein, who had approached, '- I thought you were the Dragonslayer, yet here I find myself slaying the dragon that would have slain you!'

'We are all dragon slayers, Firstborn,' Ornstein pointed out. 'There have been many, and most of them have been killed by dragons. I just happen to have been titled Dragonslayer by your father, which would have made my death all the easier for people to mock me for.'

Gwyndalion snorted.

'At any rate, I really must learn how to do that trick of yours where you grow larger,' Ornstein commented to Gwyndalion.

Then a great flame suddenly erupted from the centre of the forces under Gwyn, rushing out over the heads of their soldiers without so much as singing them.

'What is that…?' Gwyndalion wondered.

'Izalith is here,' Havel said.

The flame raced across the land, bolts of lightning continuing to fly in front of it and through it into the assembled dragons, and engulfed the dragons. Gwyndalion heard a sound like the scraping of granite blocks, and could only assume that the dragons were screaming. Then the ever-present fog grew dark, filled with strains of black and purplish miasma, and the dragons began to decay before their eyes.

'Nito is here?' said Ornstein.

'He may be dead, but he must have some desire to see us survive,' Gwyndalion mused.

'Or he just wants to see the dragons dead,' Havel observed.

The dragons screeched and writhed in the fire and the fog, and then a great white shape emerged in the space between the armies of the Lords and the forces of dragons. An albino dragon, clutching a crystal, raised its arms in triumph and watched its brethren fade to dust.

'What just happened?' Havel said in wonder as the white dragon slithered towards Gwyn, who bent his head as if in thanks.

'I think the dragons may have just become no more… at the hands of one of their own,' Gwyndalion murmured, watching his father sheathe his flaming sword and stride away from the battle, seemingly deep in conversation with the white dragon.

'The war is over?' said Ornstein.

'The war is over,' said Gwyndalion.


	2. The World Was Unformed

In the years since the defeat of the dragons, the world had become a different place. The Lords had levelled much of the land, destroying the archtrees and building up a great city upon the ground that had once been their battlefield. The great city of Anor Londo was founded, and Gwyn ruled over its golden stones in peace. Some of the Lords left, and began their own lands elsewhere, but many stayed, and Anor Londo became a paradise of sorts, for a time.

'They made you a bishop?' Gwyndalion asked incredulously.

Havel nodded, his unhelmed face strikingly pink against the dark of his armour. 'I'm practically the leader of the Way of White at this point, Firstborn,' he said, 'although I'm very much a distant second to the Allfather, of course.'

Allfather Lloyd was the uncle of Gwyn; Gwyndalion's great-uncle. He was the keeper of the annals, the records of the history of the Lords and their cities, and so had first been known as the Annalfather. The title 'Allfather' had begun as a half-joking play on this nickname, but soon became a mark of genuine respect for his strength and wisdom.

'Congratulations, my friend, Bishop Havel the Rock,' Gwyndalion said sincerely.

'Thank you.'

'Firstborn?' came a voice from behind them, and Artorias strode to meet them. 'Your father summons you.'

'I'll see you soon, Havel,' said Gwyndalion, nodding to his friend; the bishop raised a hand as Gwyndalion followed Artorias through the halls of Anor Londo.

'He wishes you to oversee today's execution,' said Artorias, his voice muffled: like Ornstein, and several of the other knights from lowly footsoldier to Gwyn's right hand, he never removed a single piece of his armour in public.

'Is he otherwise occupied?'

'He has… business to attend to,' said Artorias.

'What sort of business?'

'If he wishes you to know, he will tell you himself.'

Gwyndalion huffed, falling silent until they reached one of Gwyn's many meeting halls. The Lord of Sunlight sat in a high-backed chair, his beard straggly. Behind him, Ciaran stood, keeping watch; she nodded to Artorias as they entered. He looked old, Gwyndalion thought; it was rare that he saw his father so close-up. Gwyn was not an overly doting father; Gwyndalion noticed that his two siblings, born in the days soon after the wars, were absent. This was not uncommon: Gwynevere was thought overly sensitive for most matters, and Gwyndolin, though born male, was generally considered just as feminine as his sister. He was rarely spotted, preferring to spend his time locked away in private.

'My Firstborn,' said Gwyn, his voice imbued with a tone like dry sticks cracking against a deep bell. 'You will stand in my stead for the sentencing at today's execution.'

'Am I to assume this means I am being given some real power, Father?'

Gwyn stood, instantly becoming far larger than his seated frame would ever have indicated. 'You have no respect, Gwyndalion,' he said. 'None. But you are strong, and that is the only quality you once needed.'

'Is this praise or criticism?'

Gwyn paused. 'It is observation. You will learn humility, and you will gain wisdom, and that will begin when you see how justice is executed.'

'So I am not merely substituting for you because you don't have the time to do it yourself?'

'I have business,' Gwyn replied, his tone making it clear that there was to be no further inquiry. 'Now go, and when I return I will hear that you refrained from bringing dishonour on your family.'

Gwyndalion swallowed and nodded. 'Yes, Father.'

Gwyn left the room; Ciaran followed closely, nodding at some murmured conversation. Artorias watched them go, his head following them until they were out of sight, and then he seemed to recover his senses.

'Come, Firstborn,' he said, placing a hand on Gwyndalion's shoulder. 'You have an execution to preside over.'

* * *

Gwyndalion had attended executions before, usually standing just behind his father; now he stood in his father's place, Artorias serving as his right hand. He enjoyed war – though there was rarely any war to be had in the days since Anor Londo had been founded – but this calculated killing made him uneasy. Besides his general discomfort with the institution of execution, he had heard there was a new executioner. The last one, a grey-bearded man whom Gwyndalion had respected for the dignity he showed the sentenced and the single strong stroke with which he beheaded them, had fallen from a high window some days before.

'I, Gwyndalion, God of War, Firstborn of the Sun, Inheritor of the Strength of Lords…' He paused, glancing at Artorias.

'Keeper of the Halls,' Artorias supplied quietly, remaining completely still so that the small gathered crowd would not suspect.

'… Keeper of the Halls of Anor Londo and Master of Blades, do sentence this man for -' Gwyndalion looked at the condemned man for the first time. He was shivering, afraid, remorseful, looking up pleadingly. 'What did he do?' Gwyndalion whispered.

'Theft of medicine,' said Artorias.

'That's it?' Gwyndalion hissed.

'You must pronounce the judgment,' Artorias said; the crowd, noticing the pause, began to stir.

'He does not deserve this,' Gwyndalion said through gritted teeth.

'It is your father's will,' Artorias replied.

Gwyndalion sighed. 'I sentence this man for the crime of theft, which by the laws of my father, Lord of Sunlight, shall mean his death.'

The 'thief' slumped hopelessly.

There was a crashing, a thunderous booming like the clashing of blades and the fall of a smith's hammer, and the executioner appeared. Smough was an enormous man, a giant even, clad in bizarre golden armour modelled after what could only be a grave misunderstanding of the human physique, and he carried a hammer with a round head larger than Gwyndalion's whole body. He stood over the sentenced man, and Gwyndalion was certain he could hear an eerie, deep laughter echoing from within Smough's cavernous armour. Then Smough brought his hammer down, smashing right through the body of his victim into the stone floor. Blood, body parts and shards of bone exploded from the impact, covering many of the crowd.

There were a few cheers, mostly from men whom Gwyndalion knew to relish death and gore in any circumstance. The majority reaction, however, was of shock and disgust, and the assembly quickly dispersed, many of them shooting terrified glances at Smough as they left. The executioner raised his hammer, blood and bits of organs dripping from it, and gave a slow salute to Gwyndalion.

'Artorias,' Gwyndalion said quietly as Smough left his stage, taking the remains with him in a sack that immediately began to leak blood, 'I forgot to tell you: Ciaran wanted to see you.'

'Ciaran?' Artorias said, and Gwyndalion could almost hear him begin to smile under his helmet. 'I will go to her!'

'Of course,' said Gwyndalion. He knew that Artorias would do anything for Ciaran, and he suspected that the feeling was likely reciprocated. With his guardian elsewhere occupied – he suspected that Artorias would not approve of this excursion – Gwyndalion followed Smough.

* * *

Tailing Smough through the halls of Anor Londo was harder than he had anticipated. The corridors were long, with little opportunity to hide or disguise oneself, and no reason for him to be going this way. Often Gwyndalion was forced to throw caution to the winds, quickly darting straight down the halls in full view of anyone who might look in his direction, praying that Smough did not glance back.

The executioner's chambers were further than Gwyndalion had realised: so far from the main areas as to be almost entirely separated from Anor Londo proper, in fact. The walls became less golden and more cracked and dirty as they drew further from the city's heart and nearer to Smough's lair, and Gwyndalion could even feel a noticeable drop in the temperature. When Smough finally opened a wooden door and stepped inside, Gwyndalion realised that he had not planned this far ahead. What to do now? He could not turn back after all this effort – although it would not be hard to find his way back, since Smough had left a trail of blood in his path – but he could hardly just burst into Smough's rooms with the executioner present. He did not even have a clear motive for having followed him here; only a faint feeling of distrust and – perhaps that was fear, but he would not admit it.

Gwyndalion began to turn back, running a hand through his hair. This area was dark, with only a single small window in the wall nearby. It was just big enough for a person to squeeze through.

Gwyndalion found himself climbing through the window before he knew what he was doing, manoeuvring around the outer wall on small ledges and cracks, his gloved hands finding purchase somehow. He would not have been able to do this in the main areas, he knew, where the walls were better kept, but the lack of care afforded these quarters was to his benefit now. Carefully he shimmied in the direction Smough had gone, and found himself staring through another, even smaller, window, right into Smough's chambers.

The executioner was there, stirring a pot of bubbling food over a fire. He removed his helm, and Gwyndalion recoiled: his head was disfigured, twisted, far smaller than it ought to have been and covered in scarred folds of skin. His mouth was a broken crag filled with chipped teeth; Gwyndalion saw him smile as he observed his meal cooking. Then he went to a small table and swept some pinkish powder into a palm, before tipping it into the pot of food. The remnants of powder that stuck to his gauntlet were quickly licked away by a wormy tongue. Smough moved out of Gwyndalion's sight for a moment, and returned holding what could only be part of the leg of the man he had executed in Gwyn's name. Gwyndalion watched with dawning horror as Smough laid the bones and flesh of his victim upon his table and took a hammer to it, grinding it down into powder and chunks, and then he took the dust of the bones of the man Gwyndalion had sentenced to death and he scattered them into his food.

Smough took a ladle and dipped it into the pot, lifting it to his lips and tasting with a satisfied groan. Then, thinking he spotted movement, he looked up at his window. There was a small bird perched on the ledge; Smough moved, with unnatural speed for his size, and snatched it in his huge hand, and ate it whole.

Gwyndalion, hiding just out of sight, watched as the bird vanished from the window in a puff of feathers and a flash of a golden gauntlet.


	3. Shrouded By Fog

'Cannibalism?' Havel exclaimed, aghast.

'I saw it myself,' said Gwyndalion, shaking his head. 'Smough is eating the executed.'

Gwyndalion and Havel sat in Gwyndalion's private chambers, both unusually devoid of armour or weapons. After what he had witnessed in Smough's quarters, Gwyndalion had hurried back to the centre of Anor Londo, sent a curious Artorias away and called for Havel; then he had paced incessantly up and down his room until the bishop arrived.

'Why are you telling me?' asked Havel.

Gwyndalion sighed. 'I can tell no other. Artorias, Ornstein – my sister, even – you are the only one I can trust not to tell my father.'

'We have to tell your father!' Havel declared. 'Smough must be punished!'

'He will not hear it if it comes from me,' Gwyndalion said. 'He thinks I am reckless, stupid. Any evidence against Smough, if it comes from my snooping, is only something that he can distrust. And -' he continued, seeing Havel about to speak, '- he will not believe that anyone else would be so foolish as to go spying into Smough's quarters.'

'Then what do we do?' Havel asked.

'We must find a way to put the evidence right in front of his face, without him ever knowing that it came from any source but Smough's own foolishness,' Gwyndalion said.

'We have to frame Smough?' Havel said in disbelief, and Gwyndalion nodded.

'Father has to find out for himself,' he said.

Havel spluttered indignantly. 'How are we supposed to make _that_ happen? You're asking a bishop to frame a royal executioner -'

Whatever point he would have made was cut short by the sound of approaching footsteps, and they fell silent, trying not to stare guiltily at each other. Artorias entered the room, and Gwyndalion could feel his eyes examining them through the ever-present helmet.

'Lord Gwyn demands your presences,' Artorias said after an uncomfortably long silence.

'Both of us?' Havel asked, surprised.

Artorias nodded, and Gwyndalion felt his stomach drop. There was no way Gwyn could have found out about his trespasses, surely? Unless he had been seen – but no, he would have noticed – wouldn't he?

'You are to be added to the small council, Bishop Havel the Rock,' announced Artorias, and Gwyndalion felt Havel let out a sigh of relief beside him.

'I am honoured,' Havel said, his voice trying too hard to sound unstrained.

* * *

Gwyn's small councils were a rare occurrence. Gwyndalion himself had held a seat since the council's inception, and had only been called to meetings three times in the long, if still young, history of Anor Londo. It was vastly becoming a larger council, though: at the first meeting, only Gwyn, Ornstein, Allfather Lloyd and Gwyndalion had convened. Now there were many more seats in the great many-pillared room, some noticeably empty.

Gwyn sat at the head of the council, of course, seated directly below a great statue in his own likeness. Beside it were two more statues of his two eldest children; Gwyndolin had never deigned to pose for sculpture. Gwyndalion took the seat to his father's left; he was the Firstborn, but not the second in power. That honour went to Ornstein, who held the chair directly to Gwyn's right. Then were Artorias and Ciaran, followed by an empty seat in which Gough nominally sat but rarely occupied due both to how busy he kept and his prodigious size making it rather difficult for him to fit. On the right again of the Four Knights sat Allfather Lloyd, a tall and extremely thin man. In the battles with the dragons, he had worn enormous armour with ease; Gwyndalion did not doubt that his great-uncle still possessed the strength to do so, but Lloyd was looking old. Beside him was Havel, in his capacity as Lloyd's second of the Way of White. Then there was a man Gwyndalion did not recognise: a small, hunched figure, with an oddly scaled face. Then an empty seat, as Gwyndolin once again avoided public appearance, and finally between her brothers' seats was Gwynevere, to the left of Gwyndalion.

Gwyndalion smiled at his sister as she took her seat beside him. 'It has been too long, sister,' he said to her, inclining his head.

'It has,' she said, descending gracefully into her chair; Gwyn's daughter did everything gracefully.

Gwyn raised his hand, and all around bowed their heads.

'I call you here,' said Gwyn, 'to make an announcement. Stand,' he said, pointing at the unfamiliar man with the scaled cheeks.

'I am an assistant of Seath the Scaleless,' said the man, and Gwyndalion felt Havel glance over at him in shock. They had heard the rumours: gossip could hardly have helped spreading after all had seen that white dragon so many years ago, but nothing of it had ever been confirmed. 'He sends me as his representative.'

'Good. Sit,' said Gwyn. 'I am bestowing upon Seath the Scaleless a dukedom and his own archives and laboratories, in return for his services to us in the war against the dragons.'

There was a stunned silence around the council. Allfather Lloyd nodded approvingly, but Havel beside him looked shocked.

'For what purpose does he require archives and laboratories?' Gwyndalion finally asked.

'He is a seeker of knowledge,' said Gwyn dismissively, and Gwyndalion noticed Lloyd smiling as if in statisfaction.

'He is a dragon,' said Gwyndalion angrily, but his father's burning stare silenced him.

'He did us a great service against his own, and for that he is rewarded,' said Gwyn with finality. 'Go and tell your master that he shall be Duke of Anor Londo, effective immediately.'

The scaled man nodded and left the room as quickly as he could.

'There is another matter,' said Gwyn. 'For his own brand of services, Executioner Smough is lobbying for a knighthood.'

Gwyndalion tried to hide his shock, but he could feel Gwynevere beside him watching him with concern and interest. To his great relief, he did not have to be the first to protest.

'Smough is no knight,' said Ciaran. Her voice always struck Gwyndalion as strange: it was clear that it would be gentle, but the echoes of her helm made it sharp-edged. 'He has no honour, no loyalty, only a hammer.'

'I must agree,' said Artorias, rather predictably Gwyndalion thought. He could not complain, though: he could trust Artorias to agree with anything Ciaran did or said, and if that meant that the two of them could save him the trouble of framing Smough then so much the better. 'Smough is an executioner; he is a good executioner, but that is his place. He knows only the joy of killing, not the honour of a fair fight.'

Gwyn nodded, looking to Ornstein. The lion-helmed knight simply nodded in agreement.

'Then it seems Smough has been denied knighthood by vote,' said Gwyn, but then Lloyd spoke up.

'There is no voting in the bestowing of titles, nephew,' he said in tones like cracked twigs. 'The annals will show: the Lord of Sunlight makes a knight of whomever has served him befittingly.'

'And Smough has served me befittingly?' asked Gwyn.

'By all comparisons, he is more deserving of the title than some you have named,' said Lloyd with some satisfaction, adding as an afterthought, 'Lord of Sunlight.'

Gwyn looked down for several moments. 'Then I cannot deny him a knighthood.'

'You cannot,' said Lloyd, and he sat back and was still and silent.

Gwyndalion exchanged glances with Havel. He knew that his friend was just as confused as he as to Lloyd's sudden sympathies for Smough, and he hoped that as Lloyd's second Havel would be able to learn something of the strange situation. It hardly mattered as to motivation, at any rate: they would have to frame Smough. He could not become a knight.

* * *

'You do not seem as well as usual, brother,' Gwynevere observed when the meeting had ended and the siblings were alone together in one of Anor Londo's many halls.

'I had hoped that it would not be noticeable,' said Gwyndalion, trying not to sound dejected.

'Something troubles you.'

Gwyndalion half-smiled. 'You always were the wisest of us, sister.'

Gwynevere did a mock curtsy, a smile that had won the hearts of many men on her lips. 'I know my brothers, even if I only ever see you once in a dark moon and Gwyndolin even less.'

'Don't let Father hear you call him brother,' Gwyndalion said. Gwyn was deeply ashamed of Gwyndolin, it was known: he would never admit that his moon-devoted child was a son and not a daughter.

Gwynevere laughed. 'You are more like Father than you care to admit to yourself, you know. Do not assume that "brother" or "son" is any more of a compliment than "daughter" or "sister". Gwyndolin is our brother, or perhaps he is our sister. Either way, he is family.'

'Wisest of us all,' said Gwnydalion.

'Now tell me: what troubles you? There was a time that only destruction and war could make you happy, but now it seems you care more about politics and social goings-on than you ever did about fighting.'

'What makes you say that?'

'There are no battles now,' said Gwynevere. 'The only happenings now are political, and you care enough about something that is happening to be troubled by it. It is no insult, truly: I think you have grown up.'

Gwyndalion sighed. 'I thought all I cared about was strength in battle,' he said, slowly. 'But… there are people who are strong, who I would once have respected purely for that, but whose ideals I cannot agree with.'

Gwynevere examined her brother's expression for a long time. 'You really have grown up, brother,' she said, and kissed him on the cheek. 'Do not let me go so long without speaking to you again, will you?'

'Of course,' said Gwyndalion, and watched as his sister departed, handmaidens in tow.

* * *

Later, Gwyndalion and Havel sat opposite each other once again, neither sure where to start. Finally Gwyndalion broke the silence:

'We cannot allow Smough to become a knight.'

Havel nodded distractedly.

'If he cannot be ousted by vote,' Gwyndalion continued, 'then we must prove that he is not suitable.'

'Hmm,' said Havel.

'Is there something more important?' Gwyndalion asked irritably.

Havel looked up at him for the first time. 'No. Maybe. I think so. I'm not sure.'

'What is it?'

Havel shifted uncomfortably, grasping at his own forearms. 'I don't know about Seath,' he said finally.

'I don't think anyone does,' said Gwyndalion.

'It makes me uneasy,' said Havel. 'Making a dragon a duke, giving him free rein to research into… whatever he wants to research into.'

'My father has to show reward to those who serve him,' Gwyndalion said, 'just as he has to have those who go against his laws punished. It's justice.'

'Is it?' Havel asked, and Gwyndalion found that he could not answer. 'The executioner of your father's will is a cannibal! And a dragon holds a higher rank than I do! And no, this is not envy talking,' he said quickly, seeing Gwyndalion about to interject, 'this is the years of war with dragons talking.'

'How can we know that a dragon cannot be a good person?' Gwyndalion asked. 'Seath helped us destroy his own; he's hardly a typical dragon.'

'You cannot mean that,' said Havel, and Gwyndalion could only sit back uncomfortably. 'You cannot trust a dragon.'

'I'm not saying I trust him,' said Gwyndalion. 'I have no basis to trust or distrust him.'

'He is a _dragon_, Gwyndalion. Not a person.'

'I know that.'

Havel stared at the wall for a moment. 'If he does anything – _anything_ – that goes against Gwyn's laws, I will kill him myself.'

Gwyndalion looked at his friend, and saw that it was true. Then Havel seemed to shake himself, suddenly asking, 'But to immediate matters – how do we frame Smough?'

Gwyndalion thought for a moment. 'Last time, I caught him after an execution.'

'Then he eats them straight away,' surmised Havel. 'Fresh meat.'

'We must find a way to lead them to him while he is in the act,' said Gwyndalion. 'When is the next execution?'

'Tomorrow, I think,' said Havel.

'Then all you have to do is summon someone to Smough's rooms straight afterwards.'

'All _I_ have to do?' Havel spluttered indignantly.

'I can hardly do it myself,' said Gwyndalion pointedly. 'Father would barely trust me to tell him which direction the sun sets in.'

'Fine,' said Havel. 'But you must promise me something in return.'

Gwyndalion nodded. 'Of course, my friend.'

Havel leaned forwards. 'You must _not trust Seath_. And you must not trust anyone who associates with him.'

'That would include my own father,' said Gwyndalion.

Havel nodded.

'You distrust Gwyn?' asked the Firstborn in surprise.

'I do.'

'Lloyd?'

'He supports Seath. I don't know why, but I can no longer trust him.'

Gwyndalion looked at his friend thoughtfully for a moment.

'I will not trust Seath. And in return you will help me show them why they cannot trust Smough?'

Havel nodded again. 'The time may come that I ask you to help me do the same to Seath.'

Gwyndalion paused. 'I understand.'

The two shook hands.

'Then together we will find those who cannot be trusted and remove them?' said Havel, clasping Gwyndalion's hand tightly.

'We will,' said Gwyndalion.

Havel nodded approvingly.


	4. With Fire Came Disparity

Gwyndalion stood beside his father at the gates of Anor Londo, watching as the delegates of Flann's kingdom approached. At their head was the Flame Lord himself, a towering man with a crimson cape and billows of smoke continuously pouring from inside his armour. There had been an execution set for the day, but it had been postponed when news of the foreign visitors had spread.

'Welcome, Flame Lord,' Gwyn called down. 'Have you named your land yet?'

'I have not,' replied Flann. Gwyndalion was familiar with his history; a powerful Lord with a powerful soul, Flann had left to found his own kingdom in the aftermath of the wars with the dragons, and had never been a part of Anor Londo. He had clearly been successful enough, judging from the sheer number of subjects and gifted treasures he had in tow.

'You are welcome in Anor Londo,' declared Gwyn, and Flann bowed his head in thanks.

As the Flame Lord and his entourage made their way underneath Gwyndalion and his father, through the large gates, Gwyn turned towards Gwyndalion and spoke quietly.

'I do not know what they come for, but I warn you now: do not trust them, and do not embarrass me.'

Gwyndalion could only nod. Being told to be careful was almost… caring of his father, but that was mitigated somewhat by the fact that Gwyn's obvious priority was avoiding having his son besmirch his family.

'Now come,' said Gwyn. 'We must speak to them in private.'

* * *

'I am here,' said Flann, his voice lightly inflected with tones not of Anor Londo, 'because there have been certain incidents in my kingdom with which I am not satisfied.'

Gwyn reclined in his throne, eyeing the young Lord carefully; Gwyndalion, sitting beside his father, could feel the beginnings of disdain. 'Speak of them.'

Flann bowed his head slightly, his eyes continually scanning each person present before him: Gwyn, Gwyndalion, and behind them Artorias and Lloyd. 'There have been disappearances, Lord of Sunlight. Young women. Children, even.'

Gwyn grunted. 'Is this my concern? Do you come here only to escape your misfortunes? You chose to leave us, O Lord of Flame.'

Flann raised an eyebrow at that, but wisely chose not to address it. 'I come here because I suspect that this may be where they have disappeared to,' he said.

'And what gives you such an idea?' demanded Gwyn.

Flann met his gaze, unfazed. 'My people have seen men with scaled skin sneaking about. And when they leave, they seem to leave in this direction. We are, after all, the closest neighbours of the kingdoms, and so my people are within easy reach from Anor Londo.'

'Men with scaled skin? Pah.' Gwyn snorted. 'They are no associates of mine.'

Gwyndalion eyed his father with surprise, and opened his mouth to speak, but Flann was quicker.

'I have heard they are associates of a certain Duke of your acquaintance, my Lord,' he said, and Gwyn's face reddened.

'Do you accuse me and my nobles?' he spat.

'I accuse nobody,' Flann replied, holding his hands up, 'but you understand my concern. I only want to solve the mystery of my disappeared people; if I can conclude that one of my suspicions is incorrect, then I can move on to other avenues of inquiry. Proof of innocence will help me to narrow my search, my Lord.'

Gwyn turned his head towards Gwyndalion, who thought he might be spoken to, but Gwyn kept turning until he was staring at Lloyd and Artorias. 'Your thoughts,' he said.

'Let him investigate,' said Artorias flatly. 'There is no reason not to. To refuse is only to draw suspicion.'

'Seath is innocent!' spluttered Lloyd. 'This is preposterous – no need – worthless!'

Gwyndalion could not hide a troubled expression at his great-uncle's passionate sympathies; fortunately, there were no eyes on his face.

Gwyn turned, reluctantly it seemed, to Gwyndalion. 'And you?' he said, seeming to regret that his son's opinion had to be called upon.

'Let him investigate,' said Gwyndalion, and Gwyn sighed.

'Very well,' the Lord of Sunlight said, turning back to Flann, who bowed his head again. 'You may reside here as our honoured guest -' Flann could not hide the quiet chuckle that escaped his helm at that, Gwyndalion noticed, but his father ignored it, '- and search for whatever it is you think you will find. Only obey our laws, and we will have no quarrel.'

'Your wisdom and hospitality is most graciously accepted,' Flann replied, motioning for his retainers to set chests of gifts in front of Gwyn. 'I shall cause no trouble, unless I find reason to.'

With that last remark, Flann turned and left, leaving the hosts of Anor Londo gazing after him with somewhat mixed emotions.

* * *

'What did the Flame Lord want, then?' asked Havel, and Gwyndalion could not help but smile.

'He suspects Seath of being behind abductions from his kingdom,' he said, and Havel's eyes lit up, 'and he plans to investigate. There is something about him, Havel – something that tells me he would be more than willing to help in the unearthing of injustice.'

'You think he could be persuaded to help us with our executioner problem?' said Havel thoughtfully, and Gwyndalion nodded.

'The execution tomorrow remains the best time to reveal Smough for what he is,' the Firstborn mused. 'If I can persuade him to help us cause a distraction, something to cover us, then I may be able to ensure that the evidence is in plain sight whilst you bring someone to see it. Then Smough will be uncovered, and they will be unable to knight him.'

'Then go and persuade him!' said Havel, and at that moment Flann himself walked in.

'Persuade whom of what?' asked the Flame Lord, and Gwyndalion and Havel could only exchange surprised looks. 'I apologise, Firstborn, I realise it is a little unorthodox for me to have come to your private rooms, but… something has told me that I can trust you. More so than your father.'

'Something told me the same about you,' Gwyndalion replied, and Flann chuckled.

'You must be Bishop Havel the Rock,' he said, and Havel nodded.

'You have us at something of a disadvantage,' said the bishop, albeit respectfully, 'for we do not often go out without our armour. Well, this one does,' he added. 'Gwyndalion is perhaps the only person in Anor Londo who does not wear a helmet to dinner.'

Flann took a seat, reaching up with heavily flame pattern-embossed gauntlets, and removed his helmet. As the smoke poured out and dissipated, Gwyndalion saw his face for the first time. It was paler than he had expected, and far younger. Flann's hair was long, his eyes bright, and Gwyndalion's feelings of hope and trust redoubled.

'Please,' said the Flame Lord, 'finish your conversation, and then I will speak.'

'It is finished, I think,' said Gwyndalion, and Havel lowered his head in agreement. 'We have a favour to ask of you, Lord Flann.'

'That is convenient,' said Flann. 'I had hoped to ask the same, and I prefer to repay favours as quickly as possible.'

Havel leaned forwards, examining Flann's expressions carefully. 'The Firstborn thinks he can trust you,' he said to the Flame Lord. 'I cannot say why, but I feel inclined to agree... I hope we are not wrong.'

'As do I,' replied Flann.

'We intend to reveal a certain crime,' Havel divulged. 'A cannibal among our people.'

Flann scratched his chin thoughtfully. 'Reveal? So you cannot openly declare against this criminal?'

Havel shook his head; Flann glanced at Gwyndalion, who shrugged in agreement.

'A theory,' said Flann. 'Your father does not listen to you. I saw that today. The opinion of his Firstborn was the last he took because his other advisors disagreed, so he does not respect you. Correct?'

Gwyndalion tried to meet Flann's gaze evenly, but could not. 'Correct.'

'And you,' the Flame Lord said, indicating Havel, 'are a known companion of the Firstborn, so the two of you do not command enough respect with the Lord of Sunlight to openly make accusations.'

Havel and Gwyndalion glanced at each other, Flann's words uncomfortably true.

'So you want to make it so that your father discovers this crime without ever knowing your part in it,' said Flann. 'I will assist.'

'Thank you,' said Gwyndalion.

'I do not like injustice,' Flann said. 'I see it in many places now. If I can help you to reveal this cannibal, I will gladly do so.'

'We are in your debt,' said Havel gratefully, and Flann smiled.

'You may repay it immediately!' he declared. 'You see, I too may need assistance investigating certain crimes, and I too have the surest yet most inexplicable feeling that you are, if I may say, more sympathetic to my ideals than some.'

'You want us to help you find your people,' Gwyndalion realised.

'Yes,' said Flann. 'I am in no position to make wild accusations against Seath; I do not understand it, but I hear he holds some not inconsiderable influence in your kingdom.'

'We are not overly joyous about that fact,' said Havel flatly.

'I have no real place to start,' said Flann. 'I do not think people would take kindly to me approaching Seath directly, and so the best I can do is look for evidence and hope that I can find something strong enough to make an accusation.'

'What can we do to help?' asked Havel. 'We have no love for Seath; I will do anything in my power to help you discover his crimes.'

Flann nodded gratefully. 'I will call on you when I know more,' he said, 'but I think I must remain quiet for now. I will make inquiries, obey the laws of Anor Londo, and then when I have some ideas I may ask you to help me execute them.'

Gwyndalion extended his hand; Flann shook it, and Havel placed his own on top. 'We will help,' pledged Gwyndalion.

'And I will help you,' said Flann. 'So: your plan. When do you intend to unmask this cannibal?'

'Tomorrow,' said Havel, and Flann smiled.

* * *

Gwyn oversaw the execution the next day himself, Gwyndalion and Havel watching surreptitiously from a short distance. Smough brought his hammer down upon the sentenced man, obliterating him much as before, and when it was over he lumbered away with a dripping sack filled with the pieces of what was once a body.

'The man is a monster,' Havel breathed. 'Cannibal or no cannibal, there can be no justice in that death.'

Gwyndalion nodded, searching the faces in the crowd until he spotted Flann. The Flame Lord was going unhelmed; having arrived fully armoured, neither Gwyn nor any of his knights knew Flann by the sight of his face. Flann looked up and met Gwyndalion's gaze, and nodding he slipped away.

'Time to go,' said Gwyndalion, and Havel patted his shoulder before sidling off.

Gwyndalion headed to Smough's chambers once more, affording more caution now that he knew the way. Before he was more than a few hundred yards from the site of the execution he heard an explosion and felt a shaking, and knew that Flann's distraction would be more than enough. Smough did not turn back, but kept walking steadily and determinedly towards his chambers, bloody sack in tow.

When Smough entered his rooms, Gwyndalion pressed his ear to the door, listening carefully. He could hear the executioner moving about, his heavy armour clanking and thumping as he walked, and soon he heard the splash of something being dropped into a cooking pot of broth. Then he heard Smough moving away, the sounds of movement becoming fainter, and steeling himself he slipped inside. Carefully he picked up a pair of tongs and quietly, wincing at the sight, withdrew what was unmistakeably a forearm and hand from the bubbling cooking pot, laying it on the counter where it could not be missed. Then he slipped out again, hearing the sounds of Smough approaching from one direction and two new sets of boots from another.

'What is it you need to show me, Bishop?' Gwyndalion heard a voice ask, and he inwardly rejoiced: Havel had brought Ornstein. Any guard would have sufficed, but Ornstein's testimony would be the most valuable against Smough; Gwyn listened to him. It was a shame, thought Gwyndalion, that he and Ornstein were no longer as friendly as they had once been when they had fought together. Now, Ornstein was Gwyn's right hand first and all else a distant second.

'I thought I saw Executioner Smough stealing from the treasure Flann brought us,' said Havel, who was not a good liar, but had nevertheless managed to bring Ornstein; that was the only thing of importance.

'We will see,' said Ornstein, and Gwyndalion hid behind a pillar as he heard them draw closer. 'Smough!' called Ornstein, banging on the executioner's door with his golden gauntlet.

Gwyndalion wished he could have seen the executioner at that moment, knowing that he was about to be caught. Sadly, all he saw was Ornstein break down Smough's door, and then the sounds of shouting and struggle. Then Ornstein and Havel re-emerged, dragging a limply resisting Smough between them.

'Your report of theft has uncovered a far more vile crime, Bishop,' Gwyndalion heard Ornstein say as they took Smough away.

'I could never have suspected such a terrible deed!' Havel replied, and Gwyndalion smiled.


	5. From the Dark They Came

'You will not be a knight,' declared Gwyn, standing over a restrained Smough. The statues of Gwyn and his children stared down accusingly. 'You are a cannibal, a fiend, and you will never be a knight of mine.'

Gwyndalion stood beside his father, gazing down at the executioner. Smough's helmet had been removed when he was first brought before the Lord of Sunlight, but Gwyn had found the sight of his face distasteful. Now Gwyn's Four Knights held him down; Ornstein and Artorias gripping his arms and shoulders, Ciaran with a blade at his throat, and the enormous Gough unceremoniously sitting on top of him.

'You will continue to be my executioner,' continued Gwyn, and Gwyndalion could not restrain the choked gasp that escaped his throat. His father made as if to turn to him, but seemed to change his mind, instead gesturing his knights to release Smough. 'You will serve as you have, in disgrace, and you will never be a knight.'

Smough scuttled away rapidly and Gwyn dismissed his knights, settling into his throne; Gwyndalion was alone with him.

'Why do you allow him to live?' Gwyndalion eventually asked.

'Better to have the guilty executed by one who is already a monster,' said Gwyn tiredly. 'I would rather allow Smough to continue than replace him and force the role of killer on some new executioner.'

Gwyndalion digested this for a few seconds. 'Father, you have had men killed for thievery. I have seen it; I ordered it once. You punish a _cannibal_ with… continued service?'

Gwyn stared at his son, his old eyes too weary for rage. 'I will not have this argument.'

'That is clear,' said Gwyndalion, and he left, the statues of his family watching him.

* * *

Outside, Gwyndalion strode quickly through the courtyards, passing a group of knights practising combat. He barely noticed when one of the combatants peeled apart from the rest and hurried after him; only when he felt a hand on his shoulder did he turn.

'Firstborn?' said Flann, fully armoured, though lightly, once more. 'What is the matter?'

Gwyndalion sighed. 'Smough will not be a knight.'

Flann let go of his shoulder, tapping his fingers to his helmet curiously. 'Then what troubles you…?'

'He will carry on executing, and everything will be exactly the same as it was before.'

A sigh echoed and reverberated inside the chambers of Flann's helm. 'So uncovering his crime led to… nothing.'

Gwyndalion nodded, biting the inside of his cheek in frustration. 'This land is becoming rotten,' he said. 'There's too much wrong with it, and nothing being done to fix it.'

'You really cannot change it, can you?' Flann asked quietly.

'We are gods. I am the Firstborn, but I will never inherit because Gwyn will never die. It will be his rule, his way, until the end of time.' Gwyndalion shook his head. 'I wish I knew how I felt about him. He is my father, and I respect a lot about him, but… he is blind. I think he believes he is making decisions for the best, but he is old and wrong.'

Flann paused, seeming unsure of how to respond. 'Would you like to spar with me?' he eventually asked.

Gwyndalion looked up in surprise. 'Spar with you?'

'You are the God of War, are you not?' said Flann.

'I am. But this is a world ruled by politics now, and not war any longer. There is no place for me.'

Flann started walking towards a rack of weapons, beckoning for Gwyndalion to follow. 'There is a place fighting me, if you would like it.'

Gwyndalion could not help but smile.

'What sort of weapon would you like?' asked Flann, selecting a curved sword for himself.

'I will have the spear,' Gwyndalion replied.

'Ah. The range?'

'It is just the spear's turn.'

Flann half-laughed, removing the glove from his right hand.

'What are you doing?' Gwyndalion asked, curious.

'You will see,' said Flann cryptically, holding the curved sword in his armoured left hand and raising his bare right to his side.

'Very well,' said Gwyndalion, 'show me the strength of your people.'

Flann nodded and moved to the centre of the open area of the courtyard. Then, they faced each other. Gwyndalion raised his spear like a staff, holding it guardedly across his body; Flann made the first move, coming forward in a circular, sweeping step and arcing his blade slowly towards Gwyndalion, who easily caught it on his spear. Flann continued his circle, calmly revolving around Gwyndalion.

'What are you doing?' asked Gwyndalion.

'Warming up,' said Flann, reversing the direction of his spin with a dance-like flourish and curving his weapon in a low sweep, bringing it up towards Gwyndalion's hip. The Firstborn followed Flann's lead, bringing the haft of the spear in a circle to knock the blade away.

'Do you always battle in circles?'

Flann spread his arms wide, rotating at the shoulder and wrist to send his sword in graceful loops towards Gwyndalion's head. 'When battling for pleasure, yes.'

Gwyndalion sidestepped the falling strike and quickly thrust out, striking Flann across the ribs with the shaft of his spear. 'Everything is quicker in a straight line, you know.'

Flann suddenly gripped the spear tightly and darted along its length, raising his sword so that it sliced the air just in front of Gwyndalion's nose. 'I do know. I just like the dance.'

Gwyndalion slapped the sword away. 'Perhaps a little dance is what I have been missing,' he mused, and then he spun on the ball of his foot and leapt into the air, kicking out at the height of his jump and sending the point of the spear following his foot. Flann spun underneath the attacks, planting his ungloved hand on the stone floor as he left his feet and flipped, his entire body swinging over that one point of contact. As Gwyndalion landed, the Flame Lord nimbly continued his rotation and thrust his leg out, sweeping for Gwyndalion's feet; the Firstborn planted his spear behind his legs, stopping Flann's foot. Flann whirled about, rising and swiping with his blade; as Gwyndalion blocked it, he saw Flann's empty, ungloved hand coming towards his face and fell away just in time to avoid a plume of flame that leapt forth.

'What on earth?' Gwyndalion wondered, gazing at Flann's smoking palm. 'Is that… pyromancy? I had heard rumours, but never seen…'

Flann laughed. 'It is not pyromancy. Make no mistake, pyromancy is real: that witch and her kin in Izalith can do some wonders. I have seen it for myself, from visitors from the swamp. But this… this is a little trick unique to myself.'

'You are not the Flame Lord for nothing, apparently,' said Gwyndalion, and Flann laughed again.

'Very true – and nor are you the God of War for nothing…' He trailed off, and Gwyndalion followed his gaze: Gwynevere, gracefully striding across the courtyard, handmaids in tow.

'Who is that?' Flann asked, sounding enthralled.

'That is my sister,' Gwyndalion said dryly.

'Oh, Firstborn,' said Flann. 'You must introduce me.'

As turned out, Gwynevere introduced herself first; as she reached them, she nodded to her brother before turning and bowing to Flann, calling him by name. To the surprise of both Gwyndalion and – apparently – his sister, Flann immediately pulled off his helmet, taking her hand in his ungloved one and delicately kissing it, all the while meeting her gaze. Gwyndalion suspected that Flann's piercing eyes and youthful face had won him the hearts of more than a few women back home.

'It is a pleasure of the truest sort, daughter of Sunlight,' said Flann, and Gwyndalion waited for an uncomfortably long time while the two of them gazed into each other's eyes. Eventually he broke the silence.

'It is a surprise to see you here, sister,' he said loudly. Gwynevere and Flann started, breaking their gaze – although they did not let go of each other's hands.

'I… wanted to ask a favour,' said Gwynevere. Gwyndalion was sure she was blushing, but she was making a clear effort to present herself seriously. 'I have some missing handmaids, and… we have seen scaled men before they go missing.'

'Scaled men?' Gwyndalion repeated, exchanging surprised glances with Flann. The Flame Lord looked outraged.

'You mean that this pestilence upon my home country has pervaded even the life of this… beautiful woman?!' Flann demanded. 'I will not stand for it! Firstborn, come – we are moving the plan forward!'

'What plan?' Gwynevere asked, but Flann had released her hand with one last kiss.

'Until we meet again,' he said to her, 'and I very much hope that it shall be soon.'

Then he took Gwyndalion by the arm and strode away with him, leaving Gwynevere gazing after them.

* * *

'This cannot be allowed to continue!' Flann exclaimed.

Havel and Gwyndalion sat in Gwyndalion's chambers, the Flame Lord incessantly pacing about before them.

'We must oust Seath, and quickly – I was content to bide my time before, but that he would go after one such as her… oh, one such as her…'

'So you want us to start investigating hard now, then?' Havel asked, slightly bewildered.

'You are the second of the Way of White, yes?'

Havel nodded.

'Then Lloyd trusts you; you must make him allow you access to the annals, and learn how to destroy Seath.'

Havel sat back slowly. 'It may not be easy,' he said. 'The Allfather is… loyal to his nephew, and it is by his nephew's decree that Smough is honoured with dukedom.'

'I understand,' said Flann, 'but you must try. I cannot let him continue, not now that she is a part of his vile machinations…'

'He really is taken with your sister, isn't he?' said Havel quietly as Flann resumed his pacing.

'Havel will go and learn what he can of Seath,' Gwyndalion pledged. 'What would you have me do?'

Flann turned to him, a threatening gleam in his eye. 'Be ready to kill him as soon as we know how.'

Gwyndalion nodded.

'Also,' Flann continued, 'please help me to ask your father for your sister's hand in marriage.'

Gwyndalion blinked.

* * *

Persuading Gwyn to allow Flann to marry Gwynevere was easier than Gwyndalion had expected. All four of Gwyn's Knights had supported his petition openly; Artorias and Ciaran were unsurprisingly excited at the prospect of love, although they seemed to downplay it in front of each other, while Gough had simply boomed that it was a good match. Even Ornstein had agreed, although he had taken the more political route of advocating the couple on the basis that Flann was, after all, ruler of an entire kingdom. In the end, Gwyn had been unable to deny that the match was a good one on all levels, especially once Flann promised him gifts of appealingly exotic treasure.

Gwyndalion was surprised at how happy he felt for Flann and his sister. He had known the Flame Lord only a short amount of time, and it was a whirlwind romance if ever there was one. But then, romance was such a rare thing in Anor Londo. Immortality had a habit of slowing down the inclination to settle down. The only pair Gwyndalion knew of was that of Artorias and Ciaran; the two did not yet know that they were a pair, granted, but every other person in the land knew it. Love, then, was something Gwyndalion could not help but feel glad for. He could not be wholly content, though; Havel was at that moment with Allfather Lloyd, seeking access to the annals and the knowledge of how to destroy Seath. Until Havel returned, Gwyndalion would have a cold trepidation in his bones – and even once the bishop's mission was complete, the task itself would not yet be done. Killing Seath was unlikely to be easy.

'My mission is not yet done,' Flann said, clapping Gwyndalion on the shoulder.

'I know,' said Gwyndalion.

'I have your father's permission – now I need your sister's consent!' the Flame Lord declared. 'Where is she?'

'She should be in her chambers,' Gwyndalion said, beckoning for Flann to follow. Flann fell in step beside the Firstborn, an inescapably infectious smile spreading across his face.

* * *

Gwyndalion knew something was wrong when he knocked on Gwynevere's doors and received no answer. 'She should always have a handmaid here,' he said to Flann, whose face was beginning to emit wisps of agitated smoke.

Flann hammered on the door, calling out. When there was no response, he gave Gwyndalion a half-apologetic look before driving a flaming fist through the wood, ripping the door from its frame and breaching the room with an enraged cry. Gwyndalion quickly stamped on the flames before the many cloth drapes and curtains in the room could ignite. Inside, there seemed at first to be nothing, but pushing through the drapes Gwyndalion stumbled over the prone, bound body of one of his sister's handmaids. Calling Flann over, he lifted her into a sitting position and untied her bonds and gag, fashioned from ripped strips of the drapings.

'What happened?' Flann demanded urgently.

'Scales, a day ago. Took the Lady. Took the rest,' the handmaid whispered, and then was silent.

Gwyndalion lifted her in his arms, carrying her from the room. After ensuring there were no more women made prisoners in their own chambers, Flann followed, his hands burning.

* * *

Gwyndalion carried the unconscious handmaid to Gough's quarters, Flann striding like a vengeful spirit of flame alongside. There he laid her down, and Gough examined her carefully.

'Will she be alright?' asked Gwyndalion.

'She will, I think,' said Gough. 'The Lady Gwynevere could heal her…'

'She is gone,' said Flann, his skin flaring with heat.

'We brought her to you because you know the next about healing after my sister,' explained Gwyndalion, and it was true: Gough's hawk-sharp vision lent itself to medicine and architecture, as well as archery.

'Gone?' said Gough in shock, looking back and forth between the faces of the two men. 'But…'

'He took her,' said Flann, shaking as jets of steam puffed from underneath his clothing.

'Who did?' Gough said, but before Flann could respond Gwyndalion interjected.

'Someone. We're going to get her back; can you take care of her while we find the rest of them?'

Gough nodded slowly, his enormous body rising and falling with his breath.

'Good. In that case –'

'Were you looking for our sister?' came a voice.

Gwyndalion turned in surprise. In the entrance to the chambers stood Gwyndolin, and in his arms was Gwynevere. Flann made a choked noise and ran to them, stroking Gwynevere's face and hair; Gwyndolin pointedly stepped aside and laid his sister beside her handmaid.

'I found her,' said Gwyndolin. 'By my chambers, unconscious; someone put her there.'

Gwyndalion examined his brother. Gwyndolin's skin was pale, his face mostly concealed by the large headdress he had always worn. He did not know how long it had been since Gwyndolin had left his private rooms, but he knew how much their sister meant to him.

'Thank you,' he said.

'For what?' replied Gwyndolin.

'Helping,' said the Firstborn, and Gwyndolin's mouth curled into a small smile.

'I can hardly refuse,' he said, and with that he turned and left.

'Can you make her well?' Flann was frantically saying to Gough when Gwyndalion turned back to them.

'I will see if I can wake them,' said the giant, withdrawing something from a drawer, 'and then perhaps we will know what must be done to make them well.'

Gough held his fingers underneath the noses of the two women, crushing something between them. A sharp aroma reached Gwyndalion, and Gwynevere and her handmaid opened their eyes slowly. Gough held them both gently by the head, gazing at their faces. Gwynevere stared blankly ahead; the handmaid cast about with a fearful expression for a few moments before collapsing.

Gough sighed. 'This one, it is too late,' he said, carefully closing the handmaid's eyes. 'Bound up too long and too hard.'

'What about Gwynevere?' Flann demanded, taking her hand in his own and kissing it as if his lips could heal all wounds.

'She will live, I think,' said Gough, and Flann and Gwyndalion let out twin sighs of relief. 'But she may not be the same.'

Gwynevere's eyes slowly wandered to the body of her handmaid, and a tear fell down her cheek. Flann wiped it away, and her gaze came to his. He stared intently and desperately into her eyes; she met his gaze with a vacant look. After some moments, he released her hand. Steam hissed from the floor where his tears fell.

'You must make him pay,' said Flann quietly. Gough shifted, but said nothing.

'I will,' said Gwyndalion, feeling Gough's probing eyes upon him.

* * *

Flann left Anor Londo the next day, taking Gwynevere with him.

'Give her a new name,' said Gwyndalion, clasping the Flame Lord's hand as he sat atop his horse, Gwynevere's arms wrapped limply around his waist. 'Keep her safe.'

'We will call her… Finavere?' Flann shook his head. 'No, too similar… Just Fina, perhaps. One day she will be well again, and then she will be the goddess of love and light in my kingdom.'

Gwyndalion thought he saw a smile from Gwynevere at that, and Flann looked down at her hands around his waist.

'I think her fingers just moved,' he said, smiling and turning to kiss her forehead. 'She will be loved, and healed, and safe.'

'I will make Seath pay for what he has done,' Gwyndalion said. 'To you, to your people… to my sister.'

Flann nodded. 'Goodbye, Gwyndalion, Firstborn of the Sun.'

Then he was gone.

* * *

Havel was waiting for Gwyndalion when he returned to his room.

'Gwynevere has left?' was the first thing the bishop said.

Gwyndalion nodded. 'Seath took her. Her handmaids did not come back, but she did. It is some blessing, but… she is not the same. The life is gone from her.'

'What did that monster do to her…?' Havel fumed, and Gwyndalion could only shrug.

'This world is too much for me,' said the Firstborn. 'That she could be treated so…' He trailed off, and Havel stood.

'I must leave you again, I fear,' he said.

'What did you learn?' Gwyndalion asked.

'Nothing,' spat the bishop. 'I can trust nobody, it seems, not even my own archbishop. He is too loyal to Gwyn, too stubborn. He will tell me nothing of Seath.'

'Then where are you going?'

Havel donned his helmet and retrieved something from against the wall: an enormous club, as large as the bishop himself. 'I go to Seath's own archives. If I can learn nothing of him from Anor Londo, then I must discover for myself.'

'What is that?' Gwyndalion asked, indicating the club.

'I took this tooth from a dragon long ago,' said Havel. 'You might remember.'

Gwyndalion nodded.

'May it serve me as well as it did him.'

'You killed him,' Gwyndalion reminded him.

'Then may it serve me better.'

Havel clasped Gwyndalion's shoulder in his heavy-gloved hand and left, the dragon-tooth club swung over his shoulder. Gwyndalion watched him go, and then he sat. He had no idea what to do: a feeling that was becoming uncomfortably familiar.


	6. The Souls of Lords Within the Flame

From the moment Havel returned from his investigations, it was obvious that he did not like what he had found. He burst into Gwyndalion's rooms, throwing his club and shield down and tearing off his helmet in anguish and rage.

'Seath!' he bellowed at Gwyndalion, who could only stare back in shock. 'He is a monster!'

'Calm down,' Gwyndalion began to say, but Havel's face was suddenly inches from his own.

'I cannot be calm!' the bishop roared. A silver-clad knight, posted on guard outside, peered inside at the noise; Gwyndalion gestured at him to leave them. 'If you had seen what I saw…'

'Tell me,' Gwyndalion said urgently, and Havel's eyes roamed about the room as if the movement would push back tears, looking anywhere but at Gwyndalion.

'We were right,' Havel said eventually. 'It is his work, the disappearances. Flann's people, our people, your sister and her handmaids… Seath took them. We knew it from the start, but to see it…'

'You found them?'

Havel shook his head. Then he nodded. Then he shook his head again, and slumped to his knees. 'They are there. They are not who they were.'

Gwyndalion knelt in front of his friend, holding him by the thick plates of armour at his shoulders. 'What has he done to them?'

Havel looked at him then, tears beginning to fall. 'They are monsters,' he finally said. 'He has made them monsters.'

Gwyndalion felt something trying to block his throat, but pushed it back. 'None can be saved?'

'I killed them,' said Havel quietly. 'All the ones I found. Some of them tried to kill me; some cowered in corners. I killed them all.'

They sat in silence for a moment, Havel's expression seeming to be pleading. 'Some of them cried,' he said. 'I heard them. Voices I knew, some of them. They cried as I killed them, but… I had to. I could not let them live like that.'

'I understand,' said Gwyndalion, feeling very cold. 'To be made into something other than myself… I would want it to be ended, too.'

'He has made serpents of men,' Havel said. 'Crystal golems. Your sister's women… tentacled snakes crying out in pain. And…' He paused. 'He has made records of what he did to them. And to your sister. I do not wish to tell you what I read.'

'Did you find a way to kill him?' Gwyndalion pressed after a moment of nausea.

Havel shook his head. 'He was not immortal, at first. But he has made himself so, somehow… This much he is proud of. Many of his books speak of the Immortal One, but none that I could find would tell me how he did it, or how to reverse it.'

Gwyndalion sighed. 'It was too much to hope for.'

'But I found research,' said Havel. 'On miracles. Seath has created his own… perverted form; mangled, inferior sorceries. But he has also been investigating miracles, and he has shown me ways to use them that I could not have conceived.'

'What do you mean?' Gwyndalion asked, concerned: Havel's eyes, the tears fallen, were steeling.

'He has shown me how to kill gods,' said Havel. 'He has found weaknesses, and ways to exploit them.'

Gwyndalion stared at him a moment. 'It is Seath we need to kill, Havel. Not our own.'

'There are those of our own who would stop us,' said Havel, and Gwyndalion felt his blood run cold as the bishop met his stare. 'It would be a wise precaution to prepare to fight them.'

'Once,' said Gwyndalion after a moment, 'I respected only strength. If a man could bring down a dragon, I would call him worthy. If a man could stand evenly with me on the battlefield, I would forget anything else of his character and say that he was strong and good. But now… I do not want the kind of strength you speak of.'

The life seemed to drain from Havel at his words, and the bishop stared downwards. 'I do not want to kill more than I must,' he said. 'But we made oaths. To each other, to Flann, to ourselves. To your sister. We must destroy Seath. If that means that others must die, then that is what must happen.'

There was a long silence. Finally Gwyndalion spoke.

'No more than necessary,' he said.

* * *

The next day, Gwyn called a meeting of his small council. Of his Four Knights, only Artorias attended; Lloyd sat beside him, Havel deliberately seating himself with several empty chairs between himself and the Allfather. Gwyndolin did not deign to make an appearance; Gwynevere was, of course, absent. Gwyndalion took his seat, watching as his father slowly descended into his own.

Gwyn looked very old, Gwyndalion thought, and more frail than ever. More than that, he looked uncertain. Uncertainty was not a usual disposition for the Lord of Sunlight.

'I call you,' said Gwyn, always looking to the empty chairs and never to those who had gathered, 'because this is the end.'

Every person seated at the council glanced in shock first at Gwyn and then at every other person present – except for Lloyd, who remained still. Gwyn did not seem to notice.

'The First Flame is dying,' he said. 'The Witch of Izalith has failed to recreate it, and now she and her children are monsters. This Age of Fire is… ending.'

There was silence then for a long time.

'It cannot be over so… immediately,' said Artorias eventually. 'There should be ages left of the Flame.'

Gwyn sank deeper into his seat. 'Izalith's failure has hastened the process,' he said. 'She took some of the First Flame to make more, and she did not make more.'

Lloyd stood then. Havel watched him carefully, Gwyndalion noticed. 'I have told you the way,' the Allfather said to his nephew. 'We spoke of it long ago, when first the Flame began to fade.'

Gwyn met his uncle's eyes and Lloyd sat again. 'It is still the only way?' he said.

'Now it is more so than ever,' said Lloyd. Havel's fingers were twitching.

'What is this way?' Artorias asked, fixing Lloyd and Gwyn alternately with hard stares that Gwyndalion could feel even through his helmet and on the other side of the circle.

Gwyn did not speak for a few moments. 'A powerful soul must kindle the Flame anew,' he said, his harsh broken-wood voice quiet.

'Then someone must go to the Flame and… burn in it?' said Gwyndalion, leaning forwards.

Gwyn nodded. 'For eternity.'

'There will be those who try to usher in an Age of Darkness,' said Lloyd portentously, 'but the one who burns must keep the Flame alive.'

Havel spoke then, for the first time. 'So who burns?'

Gwyn stood, fixing Havel with his gaze. The bishop shrank back from him, but then Gwyn turned to Lloyd.

'We will find no other way?' he said quietly.

'No other,' said Lloyd.

Then Gwyn left.

* * *

'It is past the time to move,' said Havel, when he and Gwyndalion were alone together once more. 'If the Flame is truly failing, we must strike at Seath before we are lost to the darkness.'

'We still know nothing of how to kill him!' said Gwyndalion, but Havel shook his head.

'Perhaps not now, and not for sure, but…' Havel leaned in close. 'I have made weapons to kill gods. If they can do nothing against Seath, then what can?'

'He is immortal in a way we are not –' Gwyndalion began, but Havel continued heedless.

'I plan to return to the annals,' he said, speaking quickly. 'The Allfather – Lloyd – he would tell me nothing before, but he knows, he knows more of Seath than he will admit and he knows! I have to find something, something to tell us how to kill Seath, and… Lloyd knows. I am sure of it.'

'You have no trust left for your archbishop, then?' said Gwyndalion.

'None,' said Havel.

'You would go to the annals now?'

'Now,' said Havel.

Gwyndalion opened his mouth, but Havel stopped him. 'We made an oath, Gwyndalion. An oath. We are bound to destroy Seath now, and that is what I intend to do.'

Gwyndalion nodded, and Havel left him alone. As he left, he turned back and spoke once more. 'Join me in an hour,' he said. 'I cannot search the entirety of the annals myself.'

* * *

An hour later, Gwyndalion left his chambers. He had spent the time pacing, filled with dread; once he had even sent for Havel, to speak to him again, but the knights he sent out could not find the bishop. So Gwyndalion could do nothing until the appointed time, at which he set out to meet his old friend.

The annals, the books of records and all the knowledge of Anor Londo, were kept in the highest tiers of the city, by the cathedral. An enormous building was there to house them, and none were allowed inside past the first room save the keeper of the annals, Lloyd himself. Gwyndalion had visited once, on his father's orders; he had entered the first room, asked Lloyd for the information Gwyn sought, and then waited. Lloyd had vanished into the depths of the building for a few moments before returning, reciting the necessary information from some book that none but he would ever see.

When Gwyndalion arrived at that hour, there was nobody in the first room. Havel was not there; neither was Lloyd, or one of the attendants who guarded the annals in his absence. Slowly, hesitantly, Gwyndalion crossed the threshold into the forbidden chambers of the annals themselves. There he found a room filled with paintings and furniture, all of which had been broken.

In the next room, he found Havel the Rock. The bishop, fully armoured was tearing down the walls of what appeared to have been a bedroom, the bed and couches torn to shreds. Havel turned when he heard Gwyndalion enter, continuing his demolishment.

'He has hidden them from me!' Havel cried, ripping apart the stone walls with his gauntleted fingers.

'What is –' Gwyndalion said, but stopped.

At Havel's feet was a body, its head entirely collapsed under some massive blow.

'Is that…'

'He would tell me nothing!' Havel roared. 'He _defended Seath_ – said he admired the monster's search for knowledge – _he would tell me nothing_!'

'Lloyd,' said Gwyndalion quietly.

'We can trust nobody,' said Havel, staring around inside the ruined walls before moving on to the next room, where he immediately began destroying everything inside.

'What are you doing, Havel?' said Gwyndalion.

'He _still _will tell me nothing!' the bishop said, gesturing about wildly. 'He has hidden them! All of them! Even dead, he will not give up his secrets!'

Gwyndalion fully took in his surroundings for the first time then, and realised: The forbidden chambers of the building, the house of the annals, contained no books whatsoever. Not one.

'He… cast some illusion?' the Firstborn said. 'Transported them away somehow?'

'It matters not,' said Havel, throwing aside a chair so that it shattered against the wall before slumping, seeming to give up. 'They are gone.'

'We cannot kill Seath,' Gwyndalion whispered.

'We will still kill Seath,' the bishop swore. 'Whatever it takes – if we die for it – we have bound ourselves to kill Seath.'

'We cannot,' Gwyndalion said again, and Havel shifted.

'We are sworn to,' he said. 'For our people, for Flann's people – for what he did to your sister.'

Gwyndalion almost laughed as tears began to fall down his face. 'We have sworn ourselves to an impossible cause,' he said hopelessly.

'You cannot give up,' said Havel warningly. 'I will not allow it.'

Gwyndalion stared at him then, sad to find that he was unsurprised. 'I am the God of War,' he said. 'I cannot kill Seath. You cannot kill Seath. You cannot kill me.'

'I have killed a Lord already today,' said Havel. 'Are you saying you will stand in my way as he did?'

Gwyndalion spread his arms wide. 'Perhaps I am; I do not think I know. I no longer know anything at all,' he said, hysteria fading to a terrible calmness.

'I have to destroy Seath,' said Havel, and Gwyndalion thought he heard sadness. 'Whether you will aid me or not.'

Then Havel launched himself at the Firstborn, tackling him to the ground. Gwyndalion flipped him over and grabbed at his helmet, tearing it off, and struck him in the face until Havel managed to push him off. Then they stood and faced each other.

'You do not have to do this,' said Gwyndalion.

'It is all I have,' said Havel. 'I cannot have killed him for nothing.'

Gwyndalion stared at his friend's face, and saw terror there. 'Havel,' he said. 'You cannot destroy Seath this way.'

'I am _sworn _to!' Havel cried.

'But you cannot. Come with me.' Gwyndalion extended his hand. 'We will find some way to… to discredit Seath, to destroy his influence, if not his body.'

Havel's fingers flexed, as if in desire to take the Firstborn's hand. Then he clenched his fists. 'That is not acceptable,' he said finally.

Gwyndalion sighed. 'So it must be?'

Havel nodded.

Then the bishop charged Gwyndalion again, his heavy-plated arm striking across his chest, and the two fell back, lashing out wildly at each other. Weaponless, their fists hammered into flesh; knees and elbows crashed upon skin and armour. Gwyndalion could not hold back Havel, the strong bishop in his heavy plates, and found himself barged out of the building, pressed towards the narrow paths around the cathedrals, where a long fall to the earth below awaited. Summoning his strength and speed, Gwyndalion threw himself into a roll, rising behind Havel, and cast a spear of sunlight at his friend. The bishop leapt away, backing onto one of the slim walkways above Anor Londo; Gwyndalion followed him, throwing miracles at him. When they reached the middle of the walkway's length, Gwyndalion leapt forwards to strike; Havel moved quickly, spinning and throwing his fists up to catch Gwyndalion on the chin.

As Gwyndalion fell back, he called upon the powers in his ring and his talisman, building all the strength he had, and as Havel moved in to strike again the God of War let loose all his strength. With an explosion of lightning, the Firstborn charged Havel, his shoulder pushing hard as his arms wrapped around.

Then Gwyndalion threw them both from the walkway.


	7. Soon The Flames Will Fade

When Gwyndalion awoke, he found that it was to restraints. Ornstein and Artorias held him on his knees, each to an arm, as he looked up into the face of his father upon his throne.

'Father,' he tried to say, but his throat seized and he began to cough violently, straining his shoulders as the two Knights held his arms back.

Gwyn gazed down at him, the three great statues of Gwyn and his two eldest children towering above behind him and fixing Gwyndalion with stares of their own. Gwyndalion stared first at the statue of Gwyn in the centre, then at Gwynevere, and finally himself, and felt something he could not identify drain away from him. A noise to the side caught his attention, and he saw that Havel was held, some yards away, in the grip of Gough and Ciaran. The bishop still wore his armour, but his face was exposed; he was snarling, his hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead.

'You are brought before me accused of murder and the loss of the annals,' said Gwyn finally, his voice like a strong tree with cracked, dying roots.

'No,' Gwyndalion whispered; he felt Artorias and Ornstein yank hard on his arms, hyperextending them as the sound escaped his lips.

'Silence,' said Gwyn. 'This is not a trial, but a sentencing.'

Gwyndalion stared at his father, a mix of terror and the certainty of despair filling him.

'You were found half-dead,' Gwyn continued, 'beneath the halls of the annals, and inside was found Allfather Lloyd… beaten to death.'

'He was corrupt! Evil!' screamed Havel; Gwyn nodded at Ciaran, who flashed around her captive and sliced a tiny blade into Havel's open, roaring mouth. The bishop spat blood, staring at her with hateful rage, but was silenced.

'You will not be executed,' Gwyn said, his eyes slowly fixing Havel with a burning gaze. 'I cannot allow you to escape your betrayal by dying.'

Havel tried to meet Gwyn's gaze, but could not.

'You will be locked in a tower,' the Lord of Sunlight continued, 'there to remain until the end of time, and you will never forget your crimes until you are finally consumed by them.'

Gough's enormous hands gripped Havel's shoulders, and Ciaran thrust his helmet upon his head roughly, concealing his face. Gwyn stepped down from his throne then, and Ciaran moved aside; Gwyn touched a finger to the join in Havel's armour between helmet and shoulders, and a great heat welded the armour shut forever.

'You will be encased in your own armour and in a tower that none shall enter again,' said Gwyn. 'You will be imprisoned close to the parish you once called yourself Bishop of, so that you will remember that you have been stripped of everything.'

With that, Ciaran and Gough took Havel away, and Gwyndalion never saw him again.

'And you. My son,' said Gwyn, turning slowly. He gestured to his Knights, and they released the Firstborn's arms; Gwyndalion, no strength in his body, fell forwards onto his face in front of his father. Then he felt himself being lifted, and realised with shock that Gwyn was raising him to look into his face.

'I have never been sentimental,' said Gwyn. 'But now my life draws near to an end that I thought would never come.'

Gwyndalion could only stare at him in confusion. He could feel the uncertainty of Ornstein and Artorias behind him, shifting their weight.

'You have to be exiled,' said Gwyn, and Gwyndalion thought he could hear sadness in his father's voice for perhaps the first time. 'I have no choice. Havel did the deed, that much is clear, but you are of my family, and so I must make an example of you. If I do not, justice will mean nothing.'

'Justice has meant nothing for some time,' Gwyndalion managed to whisper, and Gwyn broke his gaze.

'That has become more and more clear to me,' he said. 'But I will not be here much longer. My last act must appear to hold the justice, or Anor Londo will fall into despair and chaos when I am gone.'

Gwyndalion stared at his father. 'It seems to me that you are too late,' he said quietly, and Gwyn had no response.

'I must exile you,' he said finally, and as if under a great weight he slowly turned and cast his hand upwards. The statue of Gwyndalion next to his father shifted slightly on its pedestal, and then it shattered and was destroyed. 'Your recklessness lost us the annals…'

'Where are they?' Gwyndalion croaked, wondering why he cared enough to summon the energy to ask.

'They were never there,' Gwyn said. 'Lloyd memorised them, and claimed there were books in that building. If the wrong person ever sought information, they would not be able to claim it without Lloyd's permission.'

'It was too effective,' said Gwyndalion.

Gwyn said nothing for a moment. Then he gazed first at Artorias and then at Ornstein, and Gwyndalion thought he felt understanding pass between them.

'The punishment must fit the crime,' said Gwyn. 'You lost us the annals, and so you will be forgotten.'

Artorias took Gwyndalion by the arms again then, holding him firmly in place. Gwyndalion could hear Ornstein slowly moving about beside and behind him.

'History will not remember your name. There will be no statues. The God of War will not be spoken of again. And, so I shall declare to the people, you shall be exiled, never to return.'

'So you shall declare…?' Gwyndalion croaked in confusion.

'So I shall declare,' said Gwyn again, and then Ornstein slowly came and stood in front of Gwyndalion, his golden armour shining.

Gwyndalion looked up at the Knight, and Ornstein raised his arms. Gwyndalion let his head drop in acceptance.

'So you will let me die?' he said quietly, waiting for a death blow to come.

'No,' said Gwyn.

Gwyndalion's head snapped up in surprise, and he found himself looking into Ornstein's face for the first time. The Dragonslayer was older than he had thought, with greying hair and dark eyes that gazed at Gwyndalion with something that might have been sadness.

'Take care of my name,' said Ornstein, with a voice far softer than his helmet made it sound.

Then Ornstein spread his arms wide, and held firm by Artorias Gwyndalion watched as the golden armour, never removed, opened around Ornstein's body. Revealed in his entirety, a tall but slight man stepped out of his encasement slowly. He turned and clasped the armour by the shoulder as if saying farewell to an old friend, and then the shining golden armour bent down and came forward, wrapping itself around Gwyndalion. Artorias released him as Ornstein's armour encased him, swallowing him into itself, and then the man who had been Ornstein slowly lowered his old lion's face helmet onto Gwyndalion's head.

'You will remain,' said Gwyn quietly. 'Your name will be forgotten, and everything that you were will be exiled, but you will remain.'

Staring out at his father through the golden helmet, Gwyndalion could say nothing. Then Ornstein pressed his hand to the chestplate of his old armour, and Gwyndalion felt all that he was leave him, replaced with an old, strong flame.

'Now you have my soul,' said Ornstein softly. 'May it serve you well, you who were Firstborn.'

Then the man who had been Dragonslayer Ornstein left; Artorias watched him go.

'He will take up the silver armour,' Gwyn told Artorias, as if in answer to an unasked question. 'He will continue to serve, as a nameless knight.'

Artorias seemed to be struggling for words. After a few moments, he left in silence.

'Soon, I will leave,' said Gwyn. 'Gwyndolin will be my only remaining child… Anor Londo will not last once I am gone. There will be a New Londo, after the exodus from this place, but you can never see it.'

Ornstein tried to speak, but could not.

'You must remain here, and be the test for the chosen undead who will come,' Gwyn said with clear certainty, and Ornstein fell to his knees in the heavy armour of the Dragonslayer.

He could say nothing; he wanted to thank his father for his life, or perhaps to ask that his life be ended rather than remain for eternity – or perhaps simply to ask what his father was talking about and how he could know all this. He did not know. He no longer knew anything of the mind that had been his.

'The life you have taken will not be easy,' said Gwyn. 'But you are my Firstborn, and now that I am to be unborn I see the meaning of that, where before I could not.'

He slowly raised a hand and, almost regretfully, sealed Ornstein inside the armour forever. Then he departed, almost for the last time.


End file.
